Sacrifices
by November'sGuest
Summary: Oneshot. It's Dean's turn to make a sacrifice after the death of a loved one. Possible spoilers for Season 2. Set just before IMTOD and is AU.


**Title:** Sacrifices  
**Author:** November'sGuest  
**Category:** Tragedy/Angst/hurt and comfort  
**Rating:** PG-13 (one or two swear words)  
**Spoilers:** Season 2  
**Disclaimer:** Don't own them, just borrowing them.  
**Summary:** One-shot. Dean returns his father's love by making his own sacrifices.  
**A/N: **This was written before the beginning of season two, but I have since made one or two minor changes. Sorry, this remains unbetaed.

**Sacrifices**

The buzzing in his ears grows, becoming deafening in its roar, drowning out the words being spoken to him. He knows the words are important, but he can't focus on them over the clamoring of his mind. He can't focus on the words anymore than he can focus on Sam's face as he speaks. But, he knows Sam is crying, he can see the tears splashing down on his brother's tan jacket, dark brown polka dots appearing on the sleeve. Dean breath has constricted in his lungs. His blood has turned cold in a shattered heart that is hammering painfully against his ribs.

Suddenly, nausea rolls over him in a sickening wave and he propels himself from the bed, not caring that the action has ripped the IV out of his arm, leaving tiny splatters of red on pristine sheets. Kneeling before the cold sterile toilet, he purges this morning's breakfast from his body, along with last night's dinner, continues to heave until there is nothing left for his clenching stomach to eject.

After the convulsion of his stomach stops, he is too weak to continue kneeling, so he pushes himself away from the smooth porcelain surface to slump against the hard corner of the bathroom wall. Sam's face reappears in front of him, white as a sheet, more tears flooding down his face. More words, concerned pleas this time, are coming from his brother's mouth, but Dean still can't hear him. His eyes squeeze shut against the words and the pain, begging for mercy, for oblivion--anything to rip him away from this reality. But there is no mercy to be had, for there, on the dark backsides of his eyelids is his dad's weathered face.

Briefly, his mind grasps the content of Sam's words--the panic and denial winds around his heart like a boa constrictor. This has to be a mistake, he tells himself. His father isn't dead, he can't be. He can't be because Dean _needs_ him _not_ to be. Dad's indestructible. Sammy is wrong, it's not true, there's been a mistake--his dazed mind continues to scream no. Desperate to escape, he pushes past his distraught sibling and frantically runs toward the doorway, intent on finding their father himself. To prove its all a lie.

Before he can make it past the exit of his room, Sam grabs his arm and whirls Dean around to face him. Dean sees the sharp pain, the salty tears on his brother's grim face. Dean threatens, jerks and struggles to get free, to let him find Dad. __

Dean, Sam says, _he's gone. He's gone and there's nothing more you can do._

The words crash into him dead center, Dean freezes, becomes motionless, struggles no more. He knows it's true. He knows it's true because he can feel the growing cold of the empty place left inside. Dean's heart is ripped open, glacial, anguished, bleeding, and void. Dad is gone.

And this time, he's not coming back--Dad can't be found, can't be followed--it is done.

Dean finds himself leaning against the wall, then slides down to sit on the chilled floor, knees pulling up to his chest. Shoulders begin quaking with guttural sobs that never quite reach the surface as saline tears burn his eyes, threatening to slip free. He shuts his eyes again, hoping to shut out the pain, shut out the light, shut out the mind-stripping emotion.

Then Sam's arms are there, warm and strong as they encircle him, drawing him close. His brother's sobbing mixes and syncs with his own as Sammy's cheek comes to rest on the top of his head. Dean barely notices how their tears rain down together, making more dark brown spots all over Sam's tan jacket.

xxxxxXXXXXxxxxx

Dean's sitting on the edge of the bed feeling numb and blank and listens as Sam gets his discharge instructions from the nurse. They're checking him out today, but he doesn't want to go, doesn't want to leave Dad alone in the morgue, doesn't want to face a world without his father in it. They'll burn his corpse tomorrow, but he can't think about that, either, because that makes it too real, too permanent.

Sam comes to sit beside him on the bed, shoulder to shoulder and knee to knee, and the contact brings some tiny amount of warmth to Dean's stricken-desolate-wintry heart. He hears himself asking about the why and how, vaguely knowing these are questions he should've asked yesterday, but his heart wasn't ready to hear the answers then. He's not sure it's ready now, but asks anyway. It seems like the thing to do.

Sam is quiet. Too quiet. This makes Dean look over to see if Sam heard him. He is shocked to find that his brother's face has drained of its color and his eyes are darting around, like he's trapped and is looking for a way out. Dean knows he's trying to hide something. Something bad. But he needs to know so he presses again, watching Sam carefully for clues to the secret being kept from him. Again Sam stays silent and looks guiltily at his lap because he can't meet Dean's demanding green stare.

Something occurs to Dean, but he's afraid to ask, but asks anyway, because --damn it--he needs to know, deserves to know. _Please tell me you weren't fighting again,_ he hears himself say. Sam hiccups on a sob, still unable to meet Dean's swimming eyes. Rage erupts inside Dean's heart as he realizes he has to be away from here, away from Sam. He's barreling down the hallway toward the exit diligently ignoring baby brother's cries for him to stop and the nurse's attempts to halt him. __

Screw you, his battered-beaten-worn-weathered heart screams, but no sound comes from his convulsing throat.

xxxxxXXXXXxxxxx

Standing on the sidewalk, the frigid autumn air whipping his t-shirt and hair, Dean's unseeing eyes are locked on the busy traffic in front of him. He's wondering what to do next. There is no Impala to escape to, just like there's no Dad to search for. He's alone. Always alone. And now he's lost and without purpose as well. It suddenly occurs to him that he could end it all right here and now. He could free himself from this miserable, hated, unwanted existence. One step in the right direction and that gleaming, silver charter bus could take away all of this wretched grief. The moment passes and he lets it. Dad would want him to go back to Sam. _Watch out for Sammy_, he can hear his father's words echo. He turns back to obey because this order, this duty, is all he has left of Dad.

Dean sees Sam standing outside the hospital building and he is talking to someone on his cell phone. His brother sounds anxious and distraught, near frantic. Dean glides up quietly behind him, not sure how to handle this. He's still furious at Sam for making hateful, accusing words the last thing their father hears.

But little brother doesn't take notice of him, even though he is close enough to hear Sam's softly spoken words. Vaguely, he wonders who Sam is talking to, but before Dean can consider it, his brother's side of the conversation penetrates and banishes all other thoughts. Dean goes stone-cold rigid. As he continues to eavesdrop, he is faintly aware that the buzzing in his mind is back, louder this time.

_No, he doesn't know,_ he hears Sam say. _Of course I didn't tell him_! Sam's voice becomes a near whisper as Sam explains, _it would kill Dean if he knew Dad sacrificed himself to bring him back. _

The words sink in and Dean can't breath, can't think, can't move. He feels light headed and sees a million rainbow-colored spots undulating and swirling madly in front of his eyes.

Dean didn't think it was possible to hurt more, to suffer more, to ache so deeply, but he was _wrong_ and now his heart is crumbling into jagged little bits that slice, cut, and pierce--slitting apart his soul, making his conscience recoil.

Apparently hearing the nondescript sound rumble low in Dean's throat, Sam finally turns and sees Dean going pallid and limp behind him. Little brother's strong arms mysteriously appear just as the world goes blessedly black.

When Dean wakes up, he feels Sam cradling him close, calling his name in a fear-filled voice. Blinking, Dean looks up as another wet Sammy tear drips onto his face, lazily washing down Dean's uncomfortable, too tight skin. His baby brother is shaking, sobbing and begging Dean not to leave him, too…

And suddenly he gets it.

Sammy is scared. Scared of being the only one left. __

Please. _I can't do this alone,_ he hears Sam saying.

This prompts Dean's big brother mode to kick in. He squeezes Sam's forearm, which is wrapped carefully--almost tenderly--around Dean's wounded chest, hanging on for dear life. He can feel Sammy's long, slender fingers fisted in his t-shirt. Dean is his lifeline just as Sam is his. Their eyes meet.

Brother to brother, heart to heart, their grief becomes as one.

xxxxxXXXXXxxxxx

Dean still doesn't understand the why and knowing the how doesn't seem to make any of it easier, but none of that matters anymore because he remembers his purpose. He reaches into his bleeding soul and beyond, going further than he ever thought possible, to dredge up enough strength to wake up everyday, to get out of bed everyday, breath in and out every single relentless day--no matter how much it hurts and no matter how much he doesn't want to. Dean does this because he is needed and because this is what Dad would want.

Some days are worse than others but at least he can breathe normal on most days and even the nightmares that haunt his sleep every night are beginning to ease in their intensity, their severity, their violence. For this, Dean is grateful. Sometimes he almost forgets that his entire universe has been turned upside down and that nothing makes sense, and the forgetting feels so good and so right that he embraces it, welcomes it to his barren, empty, vacant heart. Some days he even forgets to check his phone for a new set of coordinates.

But just when the world seems to become less overbearing, less painful to his raw, taut nerves, a memory will slip unbidden and he will see the beloved face of his father smiling back at him, saying his name with fatherly warmth. __

You did good, Dean. I'm proud of you, Son.

This is the moment when the hurt nearly brings Dean to his knees, doubling him over with the grief and despair. The hard reality sets in and he realizes he will never again see that face or hear his name fall from those lips--at least not in this lifetime--and it's too much to bear. He feels himself being pushed to the edge in these moments.

Just before Dean tumbles into the darkest places of the human soul, Sam always appears next to him, doling out comfort in small degrees by simply _being_.

That's when he knows that, while his aching, battered heart may never fully recover from this bottomless pit, at least he's not alone. No, never alone. Maybe one day, he will be able to remember his father without dying inside. Maybe. As long as he has Sam there by his side.

And this makes all the difference in the world. This gives him a reason to live this harsh, unforgiving life--and, for now, that will have to do. It's all he has left. Now Dean is the one making the sacrifice...by choosing to live.

The End.


End file.
